Fallen Hero
by sugarcandyaddiction
Summary: "Do you understand what it is to lose someone you love?" - Jimmy searches for his future. Ben drowns in his past. Somewhere, the signal grows stronger. (Sequel to Fire Light, AU after Season 1)
1. Chapter 1

AN: Here's the continuation to Fire Light. Took me long enough right. Thank you to all of those who reviewed the last chapters of Fire Light. I'm sorry that I was MIA for the past couple weeks and worried some of you. I'm alive, I swear! Just didn't have much time, or motivation to write. Struggling a bit because we're in the home stretch but the boys still have a long ways to go. For those of you worried, I assure you, the boys will not be separated the entire story. They'll be apart for a little while, and then they'll be together pretty much the entire rest of the story. No fretting.

This is dedicated to all those people that read, review, and remind me why I'm still writing this thing after so long.

Summary: "Do you understand what it is to lose someone you love?" Jimmy searches for his future. Ben drowns in his past. Somewhere, the signal grows stronger.

Warnings: See previous stories.

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I.

Fourth period let out and Ben hovered around the back of class, waiting for the other students to exit. At the door, Artie paused and shot him a questioning look, but he shook his head, gestured for Artie to leave. Miss Grayhaus had her back to Ben, busily erasing the chalk board. Her red hair was twisted up into a loose bun held together with a few pencils, a few strands hung loose, brushing against the collar of her white and pink paisley blouse. Ben approached hesitantly, cleared his throat, and she startled, squeaked in her surprise. She spun round, her glasses slipping down her button nose, a hand flying up to lay across her chest.

"Benjamin, you scared me. I thought everyone had left," she laughed.

"Sorry, Miss Grayhaus, I didn't mean to," Ben hastily said.

"It's alright. Did you have a question or…"

"No. I mean…yes," Ben stammered, lowered his head as color flooded his cheeks, "I was wondering about last week's free write assignment…you gave everyone else's back and I never got mine."

"Oh. Yes. Right," Miss Grayhaus frowned momentarily, and darted her eyes over the items on her desk as though searching for the paper, "I actually was meaning to speak to you about that…"

Ben perked a brow, fidgeting uncertainly. Miss Grayhaus pulled at one of the pencils in her hair, moving it back and forth to readjust. She moved around her desk, shuffling through a few of the papers.

"Was there a problem with it?" Ben wondered, a sudden panic in his chest.

The free write assignments were done in class every Monday. They were meant to be impromptu, with no word count or planned direction, simply a means of getting the creative juices flowing for the rest of the week, at least, that's what Miss Grayhaus envisioned of them. Most of the kids in class squandered the time, usually writing a sentence or two, and spending the rest of the time talking in low whispers or passing notes. Some even turned in papers covered in doodles at the end of class, so long as something was on the paper, they received credit for the assignment.

As with all of his class work, Ben tried his best each Monday, though sometimes he drew utter blanks and had to fight the urge to goof off with his classmates. He had no interest in being a writer, but he need another elective for the year, and creative writing was the most appealing – or least unappealing – of the remaining open classes. His other choices were cooking and choir. Writing didn't require four performances in front of the entire school, nor the possibility of him giving a teacher food poisoning. Being a good student was just Ben's nature. Not to mention, it was Miss Grayhaus's first year teaching creative writing, she'd petitioned for the class three years in a row and finally got the green light. Ben liked Miss Grayhaus, and he knew how much the class meant to her, so he wanted to help as best he could.

Per Miss Grayhaus's recommendation, Ben attempted to pour as much of his raw emotions and thoughts into his Monday free write, treating it as though she wouldn't be reading it later – which she claimed she wouldn't but everyone knew she did. Maybe that's what possessed Ben last Monday to write nearly ten pages about his most recent personal experience with unrequited love. He may have waxed poetic on the subject, gone overboard to an extreme, and when the time came to turn the paper in, he realized he wasn't entirely sure what he'd written and was fairly certain most, if not all, of the paper would completely humiliate him. Mostly he wanted to get the paper back and burn it before anyone else got their hands on it. He didn't want to know what Miss Grayhaus thought of him now after reading such an exposing piece, but he was sure it wasn't pretty.

"A problem?" Miss Grayhaus parroted, wrinkling her nose and puckering her lips in a confused expression, "Oh no. Gosh, Benjamin, no. Is that what…ah, no, you're fine."

Ben heaved a sigh, "Then what did you want to talk about?"

"Your paper," Miss Grayhaus said, finding what she was looking for on her desk, a crumpled piece of paper, and smoothing it out, "It was good. It was really good."

"Really?" Ben furrowed his brow, crossed his arms over his chest. His heart gave a strangely proud jump.

"Why yes. You sound surprised. Of course it was good. You're one of my best writers," Miss Grayhaus said.

"I am?"

Miss Grayhaus burst into a fit of high-pitched giggles, gently brushing a hand across Ben's shoulder.

"Yes, you are. You're very talented! Didn't you know?"

"No, I had no idea. Talented? I didn't think so, not at all. All of your feedback on my writing wasn't very positive, and you don''t usually leave comments like that on other people's work," Ben said.

"That's exactly why I write so much on your papers, because you're so talented," Miss Grayhaus explained, "And because you always put so much effort into your work, I can tell you really like to write."

Ben forced a smile, mentally noting, 'not really'.

"I give you that kind of feedback because I want to help you become a better writer and I think, out of all of the students, you'd appreciate it most," Miss Grayhaus concluded.

Ben wrinkled his brow and nodded, heart raging in his chest, and frustration edging his features. He'd had sleepless nights because of Miss Grayhaus's harsh comments, picking apart everything he wrote. He didn't care about bettering himself as a write, he just wanted to be told how good his work was and that it deserved a higher grade than the scale allowed.

"Was that all then? You just wanted to tell me my writing was good?" Ben asked, absently smoothing his hands over one another, tugging his sleeves down past his wrists.

"No, no. Well, yes, I wanted to tell you your writing was good, but I also wanted to ask you about the piece you wrote."

"Yes? What about it?" Ben shifted anxiously from one foot to the other, worried about the questions Miss Grayhaus could possibly ask.

"There's an anthology for young writers in Boston that publishes quarterly, I wanted to submit your piece for their consideration," Miss Grayhaus said, "But I'll need your permission."

Ben gaped.

"I know, I know, you're probably worried it won't be good enough, that it'll be rejected. Everyone is their own worst critic, trust me. Your work deserves to be published," Miss Grayhaus continued.

"I don't know…"

"Of course, you'll have to change Hannah's name," Miss Grayhaus went on, and Ben's heart dropped to the floor.

"What?"

"Yes, well, I don't think she'd want her name published in the anthology, especially considering some of the things you wrote about her. It might be a little sensitive, you know. But that's alright, we can use another name or figure out how to take the name out altogether."

"I didn't realize I used her name," Ben mumbled, finding it suddenly hard to form words or breath.

"You did, yes. Trust me, though, Benjamin, she is the one who's lost out and she'll realize that later in life, I'm sure, when she grows tired of the athletic pretty boys and realizes what she needs is a smart and reliable young man," Miss Grayhaus said, smiling cheerfully, "By then, you'll have moved on and found someone who appreciates you for exactly who you are, don't you worry about that."

"I can't believe I used her name," Ben whispered, barely registering Miss Grayhaus.

Ben's crush on Hannah had only been three weeks tempered, they'd shared a moment in the library during study hall, wandering the aisles, talking about the books on each shelf that they'd read. She became uncharacteristically excited when it turned out they were both huge fans of the Dune series. Ben was taken aback that Hannah, with her cherry flavored lip gloss, perfectly manicured nails, and pencil skirts, even read sci-fi. He was immediately smitten, and convinced she felt the same, especially when she said 'hi' to him the next day in class. She never said 'hi' to him. Feeling brave, emboldened by the sudden change in the status quo of their relationship, Ben asked Hannah to a movie. Her answer was a quick and unflinching, 'no'. She didn't elaborate, and went back to ignoring Ben the very next day.

Monday had marked the second day after the entire Hannah fiasco. Ben still felt a little sore over it, and he poured all of his feelings into the free write, without thought or care for who the audience might be on the other side. Now, after a week to heal, Ben remembered what a shallow ditz Hannah was, and his heart had moved on to another. It was mortifying enough that he'd immortalized his momentary lapse of good judgment into written word without making a public spectacle out of it.

"You know, Miss Grayhaus, I really just want the paper back," Ben said.

"Are you sure? I think you'd be chose for publication for certain," Miss Grayhaus persisted.

"Yes, I'm very sure. I didn't really write it for a bunch of people to read and it's kind of private," Ben insisted.

"They pay the writers, too, something like twenty dollars," Miss Grayhaus said.

"That's alright, I don't need the money."

"And it would look good on a college application," Miss Grayhaus added, and Ben faltered.

True, having a piece of writing published would look really good on a college application. Ben shook his head, attempting to shake the wayward thought out. The last thing he needed was public consumption of his pathetic lament on love's labor lost.

"You know, nothing speaks more clearly to readers than unrequited love," Miss Grayhaus said, "Nothing is more relatable, or tugs at the heartstrings more."

"I understand that, Miss Grayhaus, I just really don't want…"

"Nothing, except maybe the death of a lover."

"What?" Ben frowned, glanced warily at Miss Grayhaus. She stared distantly out the window, hand still against her breast.

"Not everyone has experienced it, but they certainly can understand the feelings. It's everyone's greatest fear, to lose a love tragically," she said, "To love someone whole heartedly and watch helplessly by as they slip slowly away. That is the only emotion that draws people in and tears them apart inside more than unrequited love."

Ben closed his eyes, and let his heart hammer away in his chest. A darkness swarmed over him, a feeling of loss and abandon. He didn't know what to say or do, all he knew was he wanted his paper back, and he wanted the conversation to end. Losing a lover, he didn't want to think about it. Something in the idea of it haunted him, ached through him. To lose a lover, he could cry right then and there, for days on end and still have more tears to shed.

"Can I please have my paper back?" Ben whispered.

"They say it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Would you agree with that, Ben? Do you understand what it is to lose someone you love?" Miss Grayhaus asked.

"No," Ben said.

"Are you sure?" Miss Grayhaus questioned.

Ben opened his eyes and pushed himself up from the sleeping bag he was wrapped inside. Nearby he could hear Matt snoring softly. Hal and their father were nowhere near; out around camp most likely. Ben sighed, and slumped back into bed, squeezed his eyes closed and let his relentless depression creep through his body and mind.

It had already been four weeks since leaving the airplane hangar, and Jimmy. Twenty-six and a half days. Six hundred and thirty six hours. Too many minutes and seconds, heart beats and strained breaths to count. Yet it still felt like just yesterday Ben had sat beside Jimmy, begging the other boy not to go but somehow an eternity since last laying in his arms.

There was a rustle at the door, and Ben closed his eyes again, laid motionless, pretending to sleep. He listened to the newcomer quietly moving into the tent. Whether it was his father or Hal, didn't matter, he wasn't in the mood to deal with the typical interrogation he got lately about his well-being and what he'd been doing all day, followed by the recommendation to get out more and move on as though Jimmy were just some momentary thing that didn't work out.

After several minutes of rummaging around the tent, the newcomer knelt beside Ben and lightly touched his shoulder.

"Get up, Ben, we've got a meeting," Hal whispered.

Ben sighed, pushed himself up into a sitting position, and glared disgruntled up at his brother. Hal returned the expression.

"You've been sleeping all day."

"I'm tired," Ben said.

"Really?" Hal remarked, unimpressed, "Because you haven't been tired since they cut that thing off your back. You've been spending more and more time sleeping. Why is that?"

"What else am I going to do when I'm not on patrol?" Ben hissed demand.

"Hang out around camp. Make friends," Hal suggested.

Ben shook his head, and then climbed to his feet and pushed his way out of the tent. He heard Hal fall in step behind him.

"I'm fine," Ben said, glancing over his shoulder once, "I don't need to make friends. I just need to rest, so that I can be ready to face the enemy. What is this meeting about?"

"Don't know. I'm assuming where we're going, how we're getting there," Hal answered.

After Jimmy had been injured and his would-be killer escaped, Captain Weaver worried the enemy would be tipped off to the 2nd Mass's location, leaving them vulnerable to another attack. He had wanted to move as soon as Jimmy was stable, but Jimmy never stabilized. They ended up leaving very shortly after the funeral. Unfortunately, the move had been an abrupt decision, and they hadn't thought much as to where they might go from there. They'd been wandering around ever since, weaving in and out of enemy strongholds they happened to stumble across. It would be a relief for most of the group if Weaver finally picked a place to set up base camp.

For Ben, it would be more than a relief, because it would mean they'd set up a base camp and finally get back to arranging attacks on the enemy. It was hard on him, going for so long a time without fighting. Now, more than ever, Ben needed the hunt. Without Jimmy, he couldn't keep the restless monster within at bay.

"I know it's hard right now," Hal said, clearing his throat and picking up his pace a bit to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with Ben, "We all miss him, you know. But you have to find a way to put it behind you."

Ben bristled.

"I don't want to talk about this."

"I'm worried about you. What you said before, after it happened," Hal persisted, "I know your head was all over the place, and I need to make sure that…."

"I wasn't serious? Because I was," Ben said, pausing and facing his brother, "Ending this war, destroying the aliens, it's all that matters to me right now. I don't need to make friends. I don't need to do anything other than fight. I need to finish this war."

Hal took a deep breath, warily studied Ben for a few seconds.

"You really think that's what he'd want?"

"No," Ben said easily, turning on heel and continuing towards the meeting, blinking away unshed tears as he stubbornly stated, "But I'd never have gotten anywhere with him if I always did what he wanted."

…

When the truck ran out of gas along an empty stretch of highway after about a day and a half, Jimmy was forced to leave it. The two men robbing his grave weren't heavy-laden with supplies. He assumed they had a larger group somewhere nearby, or were storing resources somewhere. They couldn't have been traveling with the sparse items they had with them.

There was the gun he'd stolen from them, and an extra box of bullets under the seat. He found a bag of half-eaten jerky in the glove compartment along with a small switchblade, pocketed both of them. In one of the cup holders was an open, mostly full bottle of water which he took. There were a couple sleeping bags rolled up in the bed. He slung one over his shoulder and started walking.

Rationing the water and jerky, Jimmy was able to make them last about a week. He came upon a few gas stations, and one urban area, that had already been looted. But after traveling so long with the 2nd Mass, spending countless hours having in-depth survival conversations with Dai and Anthony, sometimes Weaver, and a Klick way back at the start of the resistance, Jimmy knew better where to find resources. He refilled his bottle with water that had collected in house pipes.

In the closet of one house, Jimmy found an old school backpack, emptied it of the homework, pens, pencils, and textbooks. It had belonged to a high school student, tenth grader. Under the kitchen sink, he found a pack of steel wool and stashed it. In one of the other houses, he found a small stash of canned foods. From the looks of things, someone had intended to return for them, but the thin layer of dust suggested they never had the chance. Jimmy pried one open with his knife and slurped down its innards, peas and carrots, then stuffed the rest in his newly claimed pack as well.

What other few things Jimmy could find and knew a use for, he pocketed. He didn't linger long anywhere. Every minute that ticked by was another minute the 2nd Mass moved farther away from him. Of course, Jimmy had no way of knowing he was even heading in the same direction as them. He trekked along the roadway clutching Captain Weaver's compass, pleading for it to point him the right way. At night, he curled up in the sleeping bag, wrapped his fingers around the bullet charm at his neck, and stared skyward searched out those constellations Ben showed him what seemed an eternity ago.

If he had to walk the entire globe to get back to Ben, he would. Moving forward was his only option.

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AN: Let me know what you think. Um...there might not be an update next Sunday. No, I jest, I jest! I only just finished this chapter, but I'm going to have the week off from Christmas to New Years Eve, so I should be able to get some writing done. Knock on wood.

I'm also updating Raising Skies today, because I feel kind of bad about leaving you guys with no update for so long, so don't forget to go read and review that as well!


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you for the reviews. Last chapter had a lot of glaring errors, so I'm glad you guys didn't call me out on them. It's what happens when you post a chapter you wrote minutes before, didn't proof, and were half-asleep while furiously typing it down. Yup. This chapter should be better written, I proofed it.

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II.

Not many fighters were present at the meeting, which gave Ben the sinking suspicion his brother had used it as a ploy to get Ben out of the tent. It was still early morning, twilight dusting the horizon. This had been Jimmy's favorite time, imbued with a natural serenity, nothing but the sound of shy crickets tentatively playing their fiddles and the rustle of leaves. The gray time where you felt ashamed to so much as speak; though there was no particular reason for your taciturn, it just seemed wrong to disturb the world with even the faintest of whispers. It fit Jimmy, and sometimes, during those cold, quiet moments of morning if Ben closed his eyes, he felt as though Jimmy were beside him.

Captain Weaver caught Ben's eye when he and Hal approached, then gave a short nod indicating the brothers to join him. Tom stood to the side speaking with Dai, he didn't look very pleased, and he shot Ben and Hal the briefest of looks, shaking his head and returning to his whispered conversation. Ben decided to recant his earlier conclusion on Hal's motives, there was definitely a reason Ben was specifically needed at the meeting, one that his father wasn't happy about but Hal didn't seem to mind. Probably just a mission that wasn't even mildly dangerous.

"How you feeling, son?" Weaver greeted, clapping a hand to Ben's shoulder. Ben glanced to him and a silent understanding passed between them. Weaver drew his hand back; let it fall to his side as his gaze dusted the ground.

"Fine," Ben answered, straightening and folding his arms over his chest, attempting to appear every bit the capable fighter and nothing of the simpering, heart-broken, lost little boy he was sure everyone saw, "What's going on?"

"Nothing too big. We're coming up on a bridge, scouts spotted an enemy unit camped underneath," Weaver said.

"Trolls, right," Ben muttered.

"They got a few Mech with them, and we don't have the necessary equipment to handle that kind of fire on a whim. We need to know there's something worth using C4 and risking lives to get to on the other side and not just a whole lot more of the same," Weaver continued, "It's been awhile since you ran a solo mission and I'd understand if…"

"I'll be fine," Ben interjected, "This bridge crosses a river?"

"Yeah, only a little one," Weaver confirmed, "We've got the boat."

"Swimming's faster and less noticeable, but I guess taking a gun or any explosives with me is out," Ben said casually, brushing his fingertips across the knife strapped to his thigh.

"We'll have snipers in position on this side of the stream ready to cover you if need be, but try not to need it," Weaver said and Ben tried not to flinch or let his thoughts fly to the only sniper he knew he could have relied on in that situation, "It's an in-and-out surveillance op, avoid confrontations at all costs."

"Me and dad will be there," Hal said, which was less comforting than the elder brother had intended.

"Fine," Ben muttered, "Do we leave now?"

"You don't want to make any preparations or…?" Hal started.

"What preparations do I need to make? I really can't take anything with me," Ben returned sharply, "I'm ready to go now."

"Okay, Ben, we'll head out soon. But I _do_ have a few preparations to make before you leave," Captain Weaver cut in, "I also need a private word with you, if you can spare me a minute."

Ben hastily brushed away the scowl that crossed his features, schooling his expression into perfect apathy, "Fine."

Weaver strode towards another group of fighters, probably to relay the plan and make arrangements as to which fighters were going to play sniper, and who would stay behind to watch the group, and what plan B, C, and D would be in case things went south during the mission. Ben looked warily to Hal, bracing himself for the inevitable Big Brother speech, but it never came. Instead, Tom wandered towards them. He brushed a hand across Ben's elbow, forced a half smile at Hal.

"I'm not going to say that I don't want you to do this," Tom said.

"Then don't," Ben replied.

Tom sighed, shook his head at the ground and persisted despite Ben, "I'm never going to get used to you being out there on missions, but I do know there's no going back to the days when you were curled up safe in bed reading a book. I don't want you to push yourself too hard out there, though. You've been pushing yourself…"

"Pushing myself? There's been nothing to do," Ben cried, "All I've done is go on patrols with Hal as my baby-sitter, that's not really pushing anything."

"Hey, now, don't drag me into this conversation," Hal grumbled.

"After what happened, no one expects you…" Tom faltered, took a deep breath and tried again, "All I am saying is that no one would have blamed you if you'd taken a little time off to sort out your emotions. I'm worried that you're avoiding facing what happened."

"I'm not avoiding anything. In fact, I'm confronting it head on. You're the one who can't even say it," Ben said, "Jimmy died. I couldn't protect him. I sure as hell couldn't save him. But I can do this. I can keep fighting. I can win this war."

"It wasn't up to you to do any of that, it's not up to you," Tom pressed.

"Yes it is. How many times do we have to go over this, dad? I'm stronger, faster, and more agile than anyone – _anyone –_ else in this camp. I can do what no one else can," Ben insisted.

"You make it sound like you're some kind of super hero from your comic books, and this is just your origin story. Ben, you're not a hero," Tom said, "Having these powers doesn't make you a hero, it doesn't make you any better equipped to fight this war than any other man and woman in this camp, and while yes, losing Jimmy was tragic, it's not going to spur you on some hero's journey to save the world. You are just a young boy that has been uniquely altered by the aliens in ways we don't fully understand and cannot rationally exploit without gaining better insight on. You're hurting over the loss of a friend, you feel like you need to do something, I get that, but it will pass."

"Why do you insist on calling him that?" Ben asked, glaring at his father from the corner of his eye, "He wasn't just a friend, dad."

"I realize that."

"Maybe you guys ought to go back to your corners and cool down a bit," Hal spoke up, attempting to step between the two.

"I don't think you do realize," Ben whispered harshly, "I lost the love of my life."

"There is still a lot of life left to live," Tom put in but Ben ignored the comment.

"He was the only person, the only one left in this world that cared about me."

"I care about you, Ben, your brothers care about you," Tom stated firmly, and even Hal reeled back a step from the torrid declaration.

"No, dad, you care about someone but that person isn't me anymore, and I'm not sure it ever was me," Ben said, "Jimmy cared about me, not who I was or who he thought I was or am or who he thought I could be, no, he cared about me exactly as I am right here and now."

"That's not true, Ben, I do care about you," Tom carefully argued, but his words came across as lame and exhausted. The argument never changed, and they were just throwing empty claims at one another without any kind of proof to back it up

"Whatever. I have to go speak to Weaver," Ben murmured, turning around and trudging towards the captain, only silence at his back.

…

For the past several days, Jimmy had been walking in circles. He had no choice; every direction he chose seemed blockaded by enemy units, he was usually forced to double back over his path or turn down a route that eventually twisted all the way back to his starting point. Armed with only the handgun and pocket knife, he stood no chance against more than one, maybe two Skitters at best.

After the third time passing the same broken car garage, Jimmy decided he needed a drastic new plan. He was running low on supplies and he needed a fresh area to look for loot, he'd picked his current surroundings clean. Not that there had been much to begin with, it had already been gone over by countless looters in the past. Desperate, he'd gutted a mattress for string and coils, thinking he might use them for a fishing rod, but he had no clue when he might encounter an occupied stream next so they were just taking up space in his pack.

The water bottle was getting dangerously low. Jimmy was being forced to drink fewer and smaller sips throughout the day. He hadn't taken a piss in over a day, which he wasn't sure whether to worry more about the fact itself or that he'd taken note of it. He felt sick, nauseas, was constantly hit with dizzy spells, his heart would kick into over gear and he'd struggle to catch his breath, but he wasn't sure if that was the lack of water and food, the cold, his mysterious illness before 'dying', a combo of all three or something else altogether. His food supplies were fine at the moment, he had a few cans of food left and some of the jerky, but without more resources soon, his stocks would start to suffer in that area too.

It didn't help that the weather was changing. It had started snowing the night before last. Jimmy couldn't build a fire for fear it would attract Skitters, so he spent the night walking, attempting to get warm. He'd turned the sleeping bag inside out, so that he could drape the woolen interior over his shoulders and wrap it around himself, but when the snow got thicker he was forced to pack it away, rather than let the insides get wet. It would take days to dry – if it ever dried - and by then he would've frozen to death.

That was when Jimmy was still walking along a stretch of highway. Eventually he came across a building, an old Stop-and-Shop convenience store that he could break into and curl up under his sleeping bag. He found a sofa in the back room, from the looks of things it had been used as a break area for the employees. He cut open the sofa's cushions and stuffed their innards into the sleeping bag around his body for extra warmth. It itched and smelled strongly of marijuana and dried sweat. Come morning, when he was forced to move again, he packed what he could of the cushion stuffing into his clothing and boots, but had to leave most of it behind and face the brisk cold of the outside world.

Deciding to take a break from constantly moving without direction, Jimmy broke into the car garage and cleared it for any signs of alien life. He found a few dismantled cars, mechanical parts he didn't recognize or know the purpose of – something that made cars go, and a few stains where oil barrels were apparently once housed but probably taken by looters or the previous garage workers fleeing during the initial invasion. Like everywhere else, the place had been stripped of anything useful for survival.

Deep in the back of the garage there weren't any windows, and Jimmy felt mildly comfortable about building a small fire. He gathered some brush and twigs from outside, and used an old rag he found coated in old oil for kindling. He used some of the steel wool he'd taken from a house unknown miles behind him to get a spark. Once he got the fire started, he ate a bit of the jerky and stared forlorn at Weaver's compass cradled in his palm.

"Come on; think, think, think…where would you go, Weaver? Where would you go?" Jimmy whispered, licking his lips and tasting blood seeping between dried out cracks in his skin. All the while, the needle on the compass pointed north and refused to give away any of its secrets.

It wasn't long before Jimmy became frustrated at the silence and his own uncertainty, trembling from the cold and the fatigue and the hunger and thirst. He let the compass fall into his lap, buried his face in his hand. He was too dehydrated even for tears. He had no way of knowing how much time passed while he was in the ground. It could be only a few hours and the 2nd Mass hadn't gotten very far, maybe trapped in the same alien box as Jimmy was right then and they kept circling around one another. It could be that weeks had gone by and the 2nd Mass was long gone, off into the far flung wilds of the world along with any hope of Jimmy ever reuniting with them.

Jimmy squeezed his eyes tightly closed, wrapped his hand around the bullet at his neck, thought of Ben. He pictured the other boy in his mind's eye at that last moment they were happy together. Standing in that bathroom, Ben's arm wrapped strong around Jimmy's waist, promising each other the future. Wrapped inside that warm embrace was the only place Jimmy had ever felt safe, as though he truly belonged somewhere, to someone, and he knew, were their roles reversed, Ben would not give up. He would never give up on knowing he'd find Jimmy and they'd be together again.

They would be together again.

The door to the garage rattled from the other room, and Jimmy startled, eyes flying open, adrenaline pumping fresh into his veins and sending him on high alert. He carefully lifted himself to his feet, stalked towards the entry of the room where he'd made his cozy camp to look out at the front of the garage. He strained to listen for more noises as his watchful gaze darted all around and briefly flashed back to his fire. In his desperation for warmth, and his head in a daze, he'd forgotten that fires made smoke, and smoke had to go somewhere. Stupidly, he'd done the one thing he'd been taking precautions all week and freezing his ass off in the process not to do; he sent up a signal for the aliens.

Retrieving the handgun, Jimmy slammed a clip into place and slipped it into his trouser waistband. He didn't want to shoot if he didn't have to. He couldn't afford to waste the ammo, and the sound would probably only draw more enemy to his location, or at the very least, alert nearby units of his presence in the area. He gathered what belongings he could hastily and decided to make his way to the bathroom he saw around the corner. He had to pass along the front lobby of the store which would momentarily put him in full view of whatever aliens were creeping around out there, but it had a window he could easily squeeze through. Sometimes it paid to be scrawny. It was the closest exit out of the building aside from lifting up one of the large metal garage doors, because with the noise that would cause he'd totally be screwed.

Crouching behind what machinery and car frames he could, Jimmy paused behind a large red tool box and caught his breath as he glanced two Skitters nosing about. One edged around the corner into the room Jimmy was hiding in, and his heart cinched. He crawled around the box, attempting to stay out of sight as the Skitter moved through to the back where his fire was still lit. Those were just the enemies visible, who knew how many others were lurking around out of his line of vision or sneaking through the shadows? He didn't want to wonder about how many others were snooping outside, he'd deal with them when he got there.

Waiting until the Skitters seemed preoccupied turning over random bits of paper and examining the odd corkscrew rolling around on the ground, Jimmy made a mad dash for the bathroom. He slowly and as silently as he could closed the door, but realized he hadn't gone unnoticed when he went for the window and the handle began to turn and door opened a crack. He slammed himself against it, scrambling to secure the lock. One or both of the Skitters clawed and banged on the door.

Jimmy unbuckled the pocket knife from his hip, flicked it open and held it in his palm. He had to climb on top of the toilet, using the knife blade at first to pry open the window and then shimmy and shake it the rest of the way open. He tossed his pack and sleeping bag out first; they hit the ground with a soft thud. It took a few tries before he could pull himself up and out of the window, his arms were jelly and his hands felt too weak to grasp the small ledge. He hit the ground hard, tiny shivers of pain racing up through his shin bones and spine. He snatched up his pack and sprinted for the forest, heart catching as he spotted one of the Skitters leaving the building and a few others scurrying down from up on the highway after him in hot pursuit.

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AN: Moving right into the action. Why do I always send Jimmy off alone into the wilderness? I don't know. It's more fun. Note that the boys roles have switched a bit. Now Jimmy's the one with all kinds of faith in their relationship and love, and Ben is sinking into a horrible depression without any hope.

On a side note, I'm almost finished writing the next chapter already. What? Ahead of schedule! I think I'm getting back into the swing of things. Hopefully this is a sign of things to come and not just a fluke. I have a lot of other projects I need to work on on top of this (script for a graphic novel, phone/computer game - not sure of the platform yet, work blogs) yeah, I'm just loading myself up with shit to do.

Anyhow, let me know what you thought of this chapter!

Reviewers: Sassysavanna190, yes, I'm happy to make you happy. And then hopefully I'll make you cry, and laugh, and squeal with joy, then maybe cry a little again. Yup, we're in for another roller coaster ride. If I write the fourth installment of this series, that one is the most angst drenched of the bunch. Just a forewarning for ya'll. Two of Jimmy's friends will actually be appearing in this story, Ryan by popular demand (and you know, duh) and Gary because I love Gary (I know, I'm the only one...) and we'll learn the fates of his other two friends. We'll actually be seeing them very soon. Not sure exactly how soon - probably somewhere within the next twenty chapters, but you never know when I start writing how long something is going to take (how long was I saying 'Tom will show up soon..."). Other characters will be returning also, like, you know, Rick, of course. NOxONE, feeling fine and fancy free. Yeah, recall that I define 'soon' very differently than most people. Relative to the story, they will be reunited soon. Soon-ish. Hm...I saw maybe an episode or two of Walking Dead last season. And, you know, I'm not watching it anymore, but to yeah, separation is always a fun plot device. I already added an AN to Raising Skies addressing this question, and thank you for reminding me, but no, Raising Skies is not connected at all to this story. They are totally different universes. When you read that story, do not apply anything from this story to your interpretation of that one, because a lot of (if not all) of the characters are different than how I've portrayed them in this story. Cubelixa1, yup, it's back. Ben will definitely have a heart-attack, he thinks Jimmy's dead, saw him die. The reunion will be strange, to say the least. Typhoonboom08, I can actually, lol. I'm glad you've stuck with this story for so long, and look forward to seeing you at the end - some several hundred thousand words down the line! LuckyDreamer91, yes, see, update. Now where's my update? Read your story, reviewed it, now I'm patiently waiting for more. Dee, I completely understand. The start of story is just as hard to write. It's why I don't usually expect a lot of reviews until I'm about three to four chapters in. As always, though, I loved your insights. Mostly Ben is depressed, and speaking from experience, depression can make you feel tired and worn even when you've had plenty of rest (or are an alien hybrid super soldier genetically designed to not need a lot of sleep). Yes, I've said before that the signals are not flashbacks, obviously, because Ben didn't know Karen before the war. That's all I'm saying about it. Also, are you so sure the aliens are sending Ben the message? Ben and Jimmy are going to grow into some pretty unexpected (or totally expected, if you've been paying attention to the story) people. Ben is going to be falling down a dark path pretty soon, and Jimmy is going to be learning a lot about how strong he really is. You are absolutely right about time, and I will be playing with that concept. They're both on a hero's journey now, look forward to it! Greg, see everyone, this is how far behind I've gotten on this story. Poor Greg hasn't gotten a chapter to beta in forever, for those of you wondering why I haven't been writing a thank you to him lately. Yeah, that's why. I'm glad you dropped in for a visit, Greg, and that you're enjoying the story still. Maybe, hopefully, I'll get caught up to the point where I can get you back on beta-ing.

And that's all she wrote. Not really. I'm writing more. I don't know. See you all later. I had wanted to update Raising Skies today too, but since it's only gotten two reviews so far, I think I'll wait until I hear back from a few more people. It's a tough chapter to get through, I think, but it's also one of my favorites. I don't know, I like that story, other people don't seem to I guess. Oh well, a few do, and that's all I need.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks for the reviews people!

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III.

Captain Weaver waited for Ben outside of the tent by one of the camp fires. There were countless times when Ben felt he couldn't stand Weaver, almost came to hate the man. The captain could be hard and cold. He made decisions that were logical, rational even, but seemed to lack any humanity. He could make the call to sacrifice one fighter if it benefitted the group, something no one else, especially not Ben could ever do. Yet, Jimmy had had an almost reverent respect for the captain.

Admittedly, Ben was anxious at Weaver wanting to have a 'private word'. He hadn't the first clue what the gruff older man could possibly want. As far as Ben could recollect, he hadn't done anything that required reprimanding in recent times. Ben hadn't heard anything about the nightly hunts that stole Jimmy from him, but he assumed that was because the captain and his father decided Ben had been punished enough.

It was likely the 'word' could have something to do with Jimmy; it was a stretch but not by far. Weaver wasn't a man known for his empathetic nature or heartfelt talks; though Ben knew Weaver had shown a softer side to Jimmy. Weaver had taken Jimmy aside often in the short time Ben had known the two for brief pep talks. It was through Jimmy that Ben felt a strange, albeit distant, connection to the older man. They both lost Jimmy that night, and though it broke their hearts in different ways, the point was, it broke both of their hearts.

"You wanted to speak to me, captain?" Ben said, approaching tentatively.

Standing beside the fire, its eerie glow cast ominous shadows across Weaver's face. He barely glanced at Ben, nodding shortly in acknowledgement. He cleared his throat and tipped his chin down, obscuring his features under the brim of his cap. Jimmy used to read Weaver like a book, the two were so alike, he could've told Ben exactly what was on the old man's mind before the old man ever thought to open his mouth and share. But Jimmy was gone, and Weaver was written in a language Ben couldn't read, and somehow that made Jimmy's loss all the more poignant.

"You've been feeling restless, lately," Weaver noted.

For a moment, a panic struck Ben. He'd mentioned to Dr. Glass several weeks passed that he'd been feeling increasingly overwhelmed with energy. He couldn't help the fear that she passed the information on to Weaver. If she'd told him that, what else might she have mentioned?

"I know it's been difficult. So much has changed, and you can't take the same kinds of risks that you used to now," Weaver continued.

Ben made a face, wrinkled his brow. He wasn't sure how to interpret Weaver's words. 'Same kinds of risks', was he talking about the 'risks' that got people killed? Perhaps he was gearing up for the disciplinary speech about the nightly hunts after all. Ben ducked his head, braced himself for the torrential rage he knew the captain had bottled up inside and directed Ben's way. Some of the old man, Ben knew, had to blame Ben for Jimmy's death. Hell, everyone in camp blamed Ben. After all, it was his fault.

Again, Weaver cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Jimmy," Weaver began, and that was about as far as he could get for several drawn out, painfully silent seconds, "He was a good fighter. He was a good kid, good man."

"I know. I'm sorry," Ben whispered, blinking away the tears beginning to form.

"Why are you sorry?" Weaver asked, sounding more curious than accusatory, tilting his head to the side to look up at Ben.

Ben sniffled, shrugged, "It's my fault he's dead."

"How do you figure that?"

"I was the one that wanted to go out hunting the Skitters. He tried to stop me; I wouldn't listen, so he went out there with me instead. He shouldn't have been out there, he never would've been out there, if it weren't for me," Ben rattled off, shaking as he spoke, every word stabbing into him, spiteful condemnation for his sins.

Weaver shook his head, turned his gaze back to the ground.

"We make our own choices. You made the choice to go out looking for danger, and he made the choice to follow you. If you want to find blame or fault in that, you share it, and you each suffered the consequences of your own choices. The choices you made Ben, no more or less determined Jimmy's fate than his own. He could've made the choice to leave you to your own devices, hell, he should've made the choice to alert me to your foolish actions so I could put a stop to them, but he made the choice to join you. We make our own choices, we determine our own fates. Do you understand?"

"Yes. But it doesn't make me feel any better or like it isn't my fault," Ben said.

"If it helps, knowing all that, everything I said, well it doesn't make me feel like his loss isn't my fault, either," Weaver admitted.

"Why would it be your fault?" Ben asked, winced at the bluntness of his question.

"By virtue of first sin; I was the one that put a gun in his hand. Thirteen years old, he asked me if he could be a fighter, I should've told him no and stuck to it. He was a child, an orphan, the last of his family," Weaver said, "I never should've given him that gun; I never should've given him a place in this war. If I had treated him like the child he was, instead of constantly putting him on the battlefield, he never would've gotten it in his head that he could be out there with you, both of you all alone, thinking that somehow just by being together, that would be enough to protect each of you from danger and harm."

"He would've found another way to be out there fighting," Ben pointed out.

"I know," Weaver exclaimed, eying Ben and asking quietly, "But knowing doesn't change how you feel, does it?"

"That why you called me out here, to tell me that it isn't my fault and I shouldn't feel like it is?" Ben wondered.

"No," Weaver said, straightening a bit, "I wanted to tell you that I know you're in a bad place right now. In a pretty dark hole that it doesn't look like you'll ever be able to pull yourself up out of. We've all lost someone that meant something to us in this war, and I know Jimmy meant a lot to you."

"You have no idea how much he meant to me," Ben whispered harshly. He got enough patronizing pats on the head from his father, trivializing the life of his lost lover likening Jimmy to some silly childhood toy; he didn't need it from the captain too.

"I've a pretty good idea," Weaver said sharply and Ben examined the older man curiously, his heart giving a small jump, but if Weaver really did know the full extent of Ben and Jimmy's relationship, it wasn't evident in his expression, "I know you meant a lot to him. You gave back to him a lot of things I think the war took from him, and you gave him a lot of things I don't think he ever really had before the aliens rained down on our head. You were good for him, and I won't stand to hear anyone – including you – say otherwise. As much as we can say we regret the choices we made, and as hard as it is for us to not be sad over the choices he made, I know he wouldn't have regretted for a minute following you out there and given the chance that stubborn fool would do it all over again."

Ben nodded, wiped at his cheeks. His heart slowed its race, giving way to a mellow ache. Weaver's words shuddered through him like some kind of strangely painful kindness. For a moment, he didn't feel as though stranded in a sea, drowning in other people's impressions of him, but instead standing firmly grounded in his own raw emotions.

"Damn it. He was a good fighter, Ben. It was a rough end that he got. A real piss poor ending for him," Weaver really did sound angry, as though he could spit in God's face, given the chance, "He deserved better, but you know, I know he wouldn't have gone gently. He wouldn't have left you like that if it were up to him, not easy, no. I don't doubt he fought like hell to get back to you."

"Yeah," Ben murmured, smirked and wryly commented, "He was probably just going the wrong way."

Weaver smirked, and Ben covered a smile, took the opportunity to wipe away a few tears.

"I don't know what to do right now. It hurts so much, and I'm scared that it won't ever stop hurting, but I think I'm more scared that it will; that I'll start to forget him. I don't want to forget him," Ben said.

"I can tell you it won't ever stop hurting. You just get used to the pain over time," Weaver said, "As for forgetting him, they're your memories. I can't say one way or another what will happen to them; it's up to you. Personal experience, I've held too tightly to things I should've forgotten, and let go of the things I should have remembered. I'm not all that good with memories; I do know that if you don't want to forget him, then you never have to. But I think it's okay, and I don't think he'll hold it against you, if a few things do slip your mind. Just try to hold on to those memories that remind you of the good things between you and him, let go of the bad."

"Then I wouldn't be able to let go of any of it," Ben noted, sighing, "Even when we were fighting, it was good."

"Then at least let go of what happened in those woods," Weaver recommended, "If nothing else, I think he would want you to forget that."

"Okay. Thank you, sir," Ben mumbled, he paused, and added, "You should know, sir, that you meant a lot to him, too."

"Really? Sometimes I think I put too much on his shoulders. I fear I burdened him," Weaver confessed.

"Your opinion meant the world to him, sir. Maybe he followed me out on those hunts to keep me out of trouble, but he would've gone to hell and back for you without question," Ben said.

"Here we are thinking how we did him wrong, how many ways we failed him, and when did he ever do us wrong, fail us? That's the thing about wars, they always take the best of us," Weaver commented, sagged a bit and said in a strange tone as though he weren't speaking to Ben anymore, "I've lost a lot of people in my life, friends, fighters under my order, fellow soldiers, but somehow, his loss hurts a little more than the rest. Why is that? I couldn't really say."

Ben remained silent and Weaver blinked away the emotions swirling in his features. He cleared his throat, resumed his authoritative persona.

"I think it's about time we sent you across that bridge," Weaver declared.

…

After spending so many days hiking around the same area, Jimmy knew the lay of the land pretty well. He also had a pretty good handle on where the enemy units were, and more importantly, where they might be coming from now that the alarm was raised and the hunt was on. He'd known he would need to do something drastic to get out of the fish barrel he'd swimming circles in, but this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind. He couldn't run for very long or very far, stopping intermittently panting for breath. He knew he was carrying too much; he had to make a decision. He felt like he was choosing his own death, starvation or hypothermia. He tossed the sleeping bag aside and bolted. He could replace it, he told himself, ignoring the nagging voice in the back of his head wondering where and when.

Racing through the trees, Jimmy could hear the Skitters at his back, thankful that, from the sounds of things, a Mech hadn't yet joined the chase. He darted and wove, dodged and ducked straight into the thickest parts of the forest. He was moving into areas he was less familiar with, but he knew the Skitters with their bulky mass and multiplicity of legs would have a harder time following his serpentine route.

Branches and bracken slapped against Jimmy's face, neck, and arms, biting into any bit of bare flesh and slapping hard against his body. His lungs burned, he was drowning on dry land. His muscles screamed, but he kept pumping his legs, barely missing one tree and smacking into the trunk of another. He scrambled round it, hiding behind its large roots jutting out from the ground and forming a small ledge, just as a group of three Skitters crashed into the area. He could hear them sniffing the air for his scent, picking their way through the landscape. They knew he'd stopped moving, were probably straining to find his pounding heartbeat, or the harsh putter of his breath, amidst the clattering symphony of the forest.

Jimmy curled his fingers round the handle of his pistol, slid it from his waistband and caressed the trigger. One of the Skitters crawled to the top of the ledge, and Jimmy pushed himself back as far as he could, looked up at the monstrosity scouring the far woods for him. He caught his breath, the Skitter dropped its gaze, and for a moment they stared at one another, a strange sense of familiarity passing between them. The Skitter seemed different than others of its kind that Jimmy had seen up close. There was something about its skin; it was flaking and peeling away, discolored – not that Jimmy was certain if there was any one normal skin color for a Skitter. One of its eyes was milky and clouded. The Skitter didn't look…well.

Moment over, Jimmy pulled the trigger of his pistol and a bullet exploded through one of the Skitters's eyes. It screamed, the others jerked round in alert, and Jimmy bolted. They were hot on his trail again. He pushed, but he couldn't get air, black splotches exploded across his vision. He was losing consciousness. Other Skitters had hear the gunshot, perhaps the silent call-to-arms of their comrades, and were barreling down on Jimmy. He burst through another thick of bushes, and nearly tumbled off the side of a cliff, wind milling his way back onto the ledge. He glanced over, it was nearly a twenty foot drop, but water churning furiously below, and there was no way to tell how deep the river was or what peril hid beneath its rapids.

Skitters approached. They knew he was trapped, peering at him over the bushes and around trees. In the distance, a Mech trumpeted victoriously. Slowly, eyes never leaving the Skitters gathering round him on all sides, Jimmy pulled out the gun's clip, stuffed them in his pack. Then he shouldered the pack once more, tightened its straps as best he could. One of the Skitters seemed to realize his intent then, it perked up and its brethren followed suit. As they rushed forward, Jimmy clasped onto the bullet at his neck, squeezed his closed and spun round, jumping from the ledge. He could feel the swipes of their claws brushing his fabric and ripping at his arms in attempt to grab hold of him, the air passed by him in a roar, tugging at his hair and clothes and skin, and then he hit the water with a shock of cold and knew no more.

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AN: Short, I know. Nothing too exciting yet. Heart to heart with Weaver, and Jimmy running for his life.

Let me know what you though.

Reviewers: cubelixa1, yeah, I know, things are hard at the moment, and they're only going to get worse before they get better. Hold on, because it might be a little while before they reunite, but they will, I promise, and they'll be together most of the story. They just have a lot of growing to do apart from each other, is all. LuckyDreamer91, yes, l know, a year to read and review. It took you long enough, I'm kind of miffed. Miffed, there's a word I don't get to use often. I'm glad you like where things are going. I'm never sure when I separate the boys how people are going to feel about it. Don't take my meaning of the word 'soon'! It's my meaning, you can't have it. I don't share well with others. Yeah, I guess I can understand the not having holidays thing. Time is money, and money is honey. Dee, well, I'm glad I reminded you to review. I would've been sad if you'd never dropped in and left your thoughts behind. You're just going to have to trust me that at some point - in the very distant future - Tom does redeem himself. He really is trying, but he's flailing. He didn't have much time to get used to the idea that his son was dating Jimmy, and now he's got to get used to it on top of trying to find the words to comfort his son's losing his first real love. I hope Weaver and Ben's exchange was good. I kind of didn't want it to come across the same as Weaver's interactions with Jimmy. More of a mutual respect conversation versus father-to-son type. Jimmy is in a bad place, and it just keeps getting worse. I won't be torturing him too much, though. Nevermind, yes, I will be. Also, as promised, updating Raising Skies today. I know, you have a lot of questions in that story, and you're probably only going to have more when I post the next chapter. As for the signal in this story, trust me, whatever you think or have thought it was, you're no where near close.

Thanks for stopping in, guys. See you next week!


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Okay, so, I kind of lost a week. Basically, what happened was, someone said to me Saturday night of last week something about it being Sunday already and I was like 'holy shit, it's Sunday! I don't have anything written for chapter four of Fallen Hero'...uh...yeah, so no update. Work is kind of draining me at the moment, but I'm doing really good there, boss likes me anyway. Gave me free tickets to a show as a thank you for all of my hard work. School starts up again tomorrow...gosh, last weekend might not be an isolated incident this semester, its the last before I graduate. Come April, I should have a bachelors and hopefully several applications in for Grad school. Plus side, I'm four thousand words into an original novel. All of them suck, but hey, I'm writing something that could potentially be published in a forum that could make me some money. Maybe. Possibly. Oh well. Here's the chapter.

Thank you to the reviewers last chapter, you guys are my bread and butter.

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IV.

As a child, Ben had never been much of a swimmer. The asthma made it difficult. He'd always loved the water though, in the way that he loved everything he couldn't do with much veracity. From a period between about six and seven, he would beg his parents for a trip to the beach every weekend. He'd dip his toes in the water, but he couldn't go in very far. His mother was always afraid the tide would grab him and he wouldn't have the strength to pull himself back in. To be fair, there was a scare once, when he was about eight years old and had gotten out too far out. He'd felt the beginnings of an asthma attack, struggled to pull air into his lungs and stay afloat. There was an older boy, about seventeen, surfing the waves on the other side of the beach that spotted him, swooped in and brought him ashore. The boy had been golden from head to toe, water glistening like flecks of diamond on his lean, well sculpted chest. Clinging to the board, as the boy paddled them inland, Ben could see the freckles peppered across the boy's shoulders and nose, smell the musky scent of the boy slightly muted with the salty brine of the ocean. It was the first time Ben felt the awnings of attraction, and strewn across that board with the boy's sinewy arm holding him firmly in place, part of Ben had hoped they'd never make it to the shore.

Ben had a hunch the Skitters loved water, too. Ever since the harness had been removed, swimming came as easily to him as any other sport or physical activity. He glided across the water quick, stealthy, perfectly silent. Not a single ripple or splash made it far or loud enough to alert the aliens staked out under the bridge down the river. It was strange how easily he swam passed, because Ben could detect the slightest of movements in the water. He knew where fish and other aqueous life were hiding in the deep for almost a ten foot radius. He imagined that it was part of the "gifts" given to him by the harness, and that the Skitters also possessed the same ability to a much more powerful degree. If that were the case, they would've felt him in the water downstream but hadn't. He told himself that was probably because they weren't swimming and left it at that.

Slinking out of the water onto the opposite shore, Ben realized how icy cold the river had been and the whip of wind around him. It was almost winter, frost was on the air. But he couldn't feel it. His skin barely prickled. He just distantly knew that it was barely forty out. Something else struck him, as well, shivered up his spine and gripped him hard around the heart. There was something else in that water. A creature much larger than any fish could grow in that river, and much more graceful and swift than any Skitter could hope to achieve with their thick body and bundle of legs. It moved like a hunter, Ben knew, because after the harness he was a hunter too, and he knew his own kind. If the creature came for Ben in that water, Ben knew he couldn't stand a chance. Vaguely, he wondered if the thing was earth-born or alien-brought. Did it even matter anymore? He put the thought aside. He could worry about it when he returned and needed to cross again.

On the other side of the river, there was a small downtown area. Months since passed, Ben had lost track of where, geographically, the 2nd Mass was in the remains of America, or even if they were still in America. Though it was doubtful they'd made it to Mexico, for all Ben knew, they could've crossed into Canada. More likely they were still wandering around the state of Massachusetts, moving in circles to avoid the aliens. He had no clue what city or borough he was investigating at that moment, and it didn't really matter. In the apocalypse, it didn't matter what parts of land had been called, and when all of humankind were eventually wiped out, they would be called those things again.

It was a year past now since the invasion, and in the aftermath of the world, it was easy to see that time was still the great destroyer. Once upon a time ago, the place had been a bustling commercial area, now buildings were crumbling to dust and plants had risen up and were overgrown, ivy and weeds bursting through cracked cement, shifting and breaking apart the things man had wrought. The area was more forest than a pillar of civilization. Ben moved slowly through the ruin, careful edging around debris. He relied on his ears and eyes more so than anything else. He could hear the aliens camped under the bridge, and didn't doubt they could hear him, but they weren't moving from their base. Either they'd determined him non-threatening, thought he was an animal of some kind, not-human anyways, or just not worth the effort. Farther down the river where Ben had crossed he could hear the 2nd Mass fighters that had followed him down there and were allegedly prepared to cover him in case he needed a hasty retreat.

Other than his father and brother, the unit included Dai, a gruff older man called Coon – whether that was his actual name or not, no one knew for certain – and Valerie. She'd been a little over eager to join in on the mission. She'd volunteered a lot in those past few weeks to partner with Ben on patrol, but his father kept him paired with Hal, one of the only decisions Tom had made that Ben could feel grateful of. Trekking out to the area, Valerie had attempted conversation, Ben didn't really cooperate, and eventually her whirlwind of chatter dwindled down to a sheepishly whispered, "I'm sorry about Jimmy."

As of late that was the most conversation Ben got from other fighters, at least, from those that still spoke to him anyways. Hal made easy comments about how Ben needed to get out and socialize more with the group, but it ignored the noticeably absent faces lined up to greet Ben whenever he did come around. Anthony had the excuse of wrangling in his newly assigned unit, the Berserkers, but even when he was around at meetings or something it seemed that Ben had become invisible. It wasn't a big surprise; Anthony had a soft spot for Jimmy. A lot of the fighters did. Dai attempted to explain once, in a very typical Dai-like manner. He said that Anthony had felt obligated to take care of Jimmy. Ben interpreted Dai's meaning that Anthony was disappointed in himself for failing and couldn't face Ben out of shame. Ben had his own understanding of Anthony's behavior that went along the lines of: like everyone else he blamed Ben for Jimmy's death.

And then there was Maggie. To be fair, not a lot of people saw Maggie those days. She hadn't even gone to see Jimmy when he'd been injured, unless one counted her brief 'farewell' to Jimmy after he'd passed. From what Ben heard, Maggie hadn't been present at the funeral, some excuse about needing to finish packing up for departure. She went on patrols by herself a lot, which Ben could list off a whole shitload of reasons to his father why that wasn't even remotely fair, but didn't have it in him to bother thinking up even one. People talked about Maggie being callous over the death. In some ways, the whispers behind her back were nearly as bad as those directed at Ben. No one accused her of murdering the person she cared most about, though, and that made all the difference. Ben couldn't decide if Maggie's distance was out of her blaming Ben, feeling guilty, or just trying to sort out her own grief. He figured it was a combination of all three.

There was movement behind a stack of shattered mortar and Ben froze. He rest his hand on the knife strapped to his thigh, waiting in perfect still for another sight of his company. There hadn't been a sound but for the dust rustled by a slight breeze and the soft mutter of breath passing across Ben's own lip. Another flash of something –someone? – slinking through shadows and Ben sought cover behind the remaining pillar of a demolished building. He pressed his back against the cement, unsheathed his blade, and listened.

No sound.

Ben closed his eyes, it was less than a hundred meters away, yet he couldn't hear it. Even if its feet, or claws or whatever it walked on, weren't touching ground, there should be some kind of noise, some auditory evidence it existed. Ben wet his lips, and opened his once more, peeking out of his hiding spot and scouring the darkness. He waited several seconds, searching. Nothing. He wondered if it was gone. A shiver raced his spine, tickled those alien rods that protruded from his flesh. Not gone, he realized. It was still there, watching him. His heart pounded several times and he pressed himself back against the hard pillar. He wasn't thinking straight, his mind was playing tricks. Maybe there hadn't been anything. He was only seeing things, a trick of the moonlight. It was the only thing that made sense, if there was no sound. Ben thought of the creature in the water, too large to be a fish. He wondered about the aliens camped under that bridge. Why hadn't they heard him? Why hadn't they pursued? Or more importantly, why were they sitting there?

From what Ben had seen and heard so far into that area, there was nothing. It was empty, near devoid of life. Either the aliens were guarding the side the 2nd Mass camped on, or the side Ben was exploring. Ben tightened his grip on the knife and realized with a strange start, or they were guarding the river itself. He set his jaw and took a deep, settling breath. Senses on high alert, Ben stepped out into the open again. He crept forward through the dark, watching for any more movement. He'd walked a far length into the city district, he estimated nearly two miles, before he decided it was time to turn back. He wasn't entirely sure what to report. He'd tell Weaver what he saw, but wasn't certain whether they should forge forward or not through the bridge barricade. At least, he knew there weren't more troops stations on that side, or he thought he knew. It wasn't entirely clear.

Turning to head back, that was when Ben heard the rumble of an engine. He paused, tilted his head to one side and strained to listen. It didn't sound alien. By the clack and crunch of pavement, it sounded like a large vehicle; maybe a truck or jeep. Human, in any case, and the aliens were well aware of their approach. Ben tracked the aliens movement, palming his blade and swiftly sprinting through the debris in hopes of coming around back of the unit. He would signal the fighters across the river, who were probably already aware of the alien movement, and then double back around to attack the enemy from behind. Ben seriously hoped those people were armed.

Stumbling up to the river's edge, Ben waved his arms wildly over his head. He flashed the hand sign for attack several times, not sure if anyone was watching, and then ran back into the district towards the enemy. Gunshot ripped through the air, and Ben doubled his pace, nearly losing his footing when an explosion reverberated across the ground. He tore into the chaos of the fight. One Mech had been obliterated by the explosion, and several Skitter were dead, bodies shredded by bullets. The vehicle was a jeep mounted in the back with a Gatling gun. A man wielded the weapon, while another man fired on the approaching aliens with a sawed off shotgun, and a woman behind the wheel drove the jeep backwards through the rubble away from a second Mech.

With bullets flying from the automatic rifle, Ben couldn't get into the fight easily, but he eyed the downed Mech wondering if there wasn't a way he could help with the other. He rushed over to the dead mechanical beast, turning through its remains. They were able to melt down Mech hulls and turn them into Mech piercing bullets, lifting up a sharpened sheet of the alien metal, twisted and made jagged from the explosion, he wondered if he couldn't apply the same theory to a makeshift blade from the same material. It didn't matter how sharp the edge; a normal man wouldn't have the strength to pierce the plating on a Mech. But as Ben had told his father earlier, he wasn't a normal man. He was stronger, faster, and capable of things no man could ever dream. Re-sheathing his knife, Ben hefted the bit of metal in his hand, it was heavy, he realized most men wouldn't be able to lift the thing, and looked to the Mech advancing on those people in their jeep.

Ben hesitated, drawing in his breath fast and harsh. He was really thinking about going hand-to-hand with a Mech. It was insane, stupid, and would most likely end up getting him killed. Somewhere in the back of his head, a tiny voice not unlike his own at thirteen, still wearing glasses and hiding behind books, whispered: _Jimmy would do it_.

The thought of his lost lover seemed to embolden Ben in a dark way. He lowered the make-shift weapon to his side at the ready, loose and easy, and ran towards the Mech. It was luck, maybe, that the thing was preoccupied with those people in the jeep though his first launch at it was a miserable fail. The blade glanced across the automaton's thick leg, and he barely dodged the Mech swinging around and scorching the ground with its blue lit laser beam. Making matters worse, the machine was on to him now, plodding angrily towards him. Some of the Skitters seemed to then notice Ben as well, lunging at him in attack. He quickly tugged out his knife again in time to slice open a Skitter's throat, splitting open the head of another with his Mech-hull sword, and nearly getting stuck in his struggle to pull the metal sheet free. He stumbled back several steps, and rushed up a fallen scaffold, jumping off and past the Mech, rolling across the ground.

The Gatling gun was out of ammo from the sounds of things, and the shotgun wielder was in the process of reloading. There were more Skitters on all sides, fifteen at least, and the Mech looked about as angry as a machine could manage. Ben allowed himself a split second musing of where his backup was, maybe they'd missed his signal or were confused by its meaning, but then they had surely heard the fire and mayhem, before the Mech rushed at him and he was back in the fight. He realized he needed to get under or up above the Mech to have a clean and damageable shot at the thing. Farther ahead, he could see the innards of what had once been a several storied building, staircase relatively intact. He looked uncertainly to the people in the jeep, shotgun man was reloaded but overwhelmed, and then a Skitter head went pop from the strike of a sniper's bullet. The sight hurt more than relieved Ben. He didn't know who fired the bullet, but he knew exactly who hadn't.

Keeping the Mech's attention while drawing it towards that building and all the while not getting killed in the process was tricky. It forced Ben to dance close to the thing, and there were too many near misses. He slapped his sword across the beast's legs in passing, only to rush away several meters weaving through debris and falling buildings. There was a moment he worried he'd lost the thing, only to be caught off guard, its laser grazing his shoulder and drawing a mangled cry from his throat. He didn't bother teasing it anymore; the Mech was targeted entirely on him, the fight far behind them. Instead, he spun on heel and burst into a breakneck sprint for the building, the Mech thundering and crunching noisily after. When he reached the stairs, he took them two and three at a time, his piece of metal trailing beside him. He could barely hold on to it, the metal slick and his fingers and palm slippery with warmth. He was as far as he could get up the staircase when the Mech crashed onto the scene, and he thrust himself at it, whipping the blade over his head in hopes of piercing it through the skull.

It didn't work out quite the way Ben planned. The blade cracked the hull, but it glanced off. He scrambled for a handhold meanwhile attempting to keep a firm grasp on his sword as the Mech thrashed around trying to knock him off. His fingers found the crack he'd made, and he clung to it, his legs whipped out from beneath him momentarily and it took every muscle strung from his fingers up through his arm and wrapped around his shoulder blade to stay on top of the beast. The Mech paused for only a second, trying to reconfigure a plan, long enough for Ben to link his legs around its shoulder girdle, and then the thing was bucking again. Ben pulled up the blade, he knocked himself in the head once, and nearly lost balance three times, before he caught the tip of the metal shard in that crack he'd made and drove it in. He grunted and cried out in effort, as the blade slowly gave way through the nick in that Mech's hull, pushing into its innards.

As the metal dove in nearly four inches deep, Ben knew the fight was won. His hand tightened around his sword, and as the Mech slowed in its movements, he brought up his other hand and leaned all of his body into thrusting the blade downward. Electricity crackled up out of the beast's head, tingling into Ben's hands and all through his arms, licking like that first taste of sour flavored candy down his spine. The Mech shot off its laser haphazardly, screamed a shrill sound, gears and inner mechanisms, things that gave way like flesh in its head squealing as Ben sliced through them. Finally, the Mech fell to its knees, and plunged forward. Ben had to hurry and roll off, or be crushed under its heavy metal girth. The Mech quaked with short circuited spasms, its inner lights dimmed, and it died.

Ben lay on the dirt ground, breathing softly and watching the Mech slip away. He realized then the shape his body was in from the fight. He was coated in a thick layer of sweat and blood. His shoulder down to his lower back was trailed with an incising burn, and he could feel it more strongly than any pain he'd ever felt in his life. His palms were sliced cleanly through, he hadn't noticed while wielding his blade that his hands weren't shielded from its sharp edge, and blood, black and warm, bubbled out of them, slick along his forearms. There was an injury on his head, blood oozing into his left eye, which was swelling shut. Sucking on the bitter taste of iron from a split in his lip, Ben relished in the pain that burned through his body, drowned in the electric feeling until he was numb to it and the world dripped away in splotches of black. For a moment he was sure he was dying, and there on the other side, he could sense Jimmy, those gentle, tentative fingertips tracing the contours of his chest, arms neck, face, soft lips brushing against his own. Ben could just barely taste the other boy, smell him, and feel him there. Close, so close, just a little farther into the beyond and they would be together, just like they were supposed to be, together forever.

"Ben," Tom's voice called, muffled by the roar in Ben's ears. His father cupped his cheek, said, "Ben, can you hear me? Can you get up, son?"

"No," Ben groaned.

"Don't try to move then, son, they're getting Dr. Glass," Tom said.

"No," Ben cried, pushing his father away angrily, and sitting up with a haggard gasp for air. He ground the tears from his eyes then glared up at his father, spitting out, "I'm fine."

"You're in bad shape," Tom quietly stated.

Ben dragged himself to his feet, clutched his bleeding palms to himself, and muttered, "I've been in worse shape. It's nothing. Those people…?"

"They're okay. Dai is talking to them. What the hell were you thinking attacking a Mech like that? You didn't have the firepower! I can't even begin to tell you how stupid, reckless…"

"The Mech is dead, and I'm alive," Ben pointed out, "I didn't have a choice."

"You could've waited for us to get there. We had C4," Tom said.

"If I'd waited for you, those people would be dead. I made the choice to save them and it worked out," Ben seethed, and then grumbled, "I need stitches for my hands."

"You need more than stitches right now," Tom mumbled, shaking his head, "This is your last mission for a while, Ben, I think you need to stay in camp for a month or so."

"What?" Ben roared, reeling on his father, "I didn't do anything wrong. I did everything I was supposed to, it's not my fault those people came out of nowhere, but on the bright side, hey, we're across the bridge, aren't we? Why should I be grounded to camp?"

"Ben, you took on a Mech armed with just a knife!"

"And won, dad, don't forget that I won," Ben muttered.

"That's not the point."

Ben scowled, kicked at the dirt. He waited for his father to continue, but Tom never did. The silence tensed between them, when it began to feel too thick to bear, Hal plodded into the area. He kicked at the Mech, and raised a brow at Ben.

"Holy shit. _You_ did this?"

Ben smirked and Tom scorned, "Don't encourage him, Hal."

"Sorry. I'm just saying, that's kind of awesome. Wow, you look like crap, though, Ben, maybe don't do that again," Hal said.

Ben rolled his eyes, and turned his head away. Tom made a face at Hal, shook his head reprovingly, but said nothing.

"Weaver and Dr. Glass are on their way, and the rest of the 2nd Mass are crossing the bridge now. Dai's been talking to those people from the jeep, though, dad, and you're really going to want to hear what they're saying," Hal said.

Ben wrinkled his brow, glancing back at his brother curiously.

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AN: I was toying with the idea of Ben getting a sword forged from the metal of a Mech this story, but decided against it because, well, I'm not writing an anime. This little scene was my compromise, and also a sign of things to come. He's always been a mite reckless, but he's going to be getting increasingly devil-may-care in coming chapters. Mainly, cuz, you know, he don't give a shit about life right now. Also, brace yourselves boys and girls, Ryan is coming very, very, _very_ soon. Does anybody care anymore? Meh.

Let me know what you think!

Reviewers: LuckyDreamer91, look, dude, it got longer! Also took longer to get here. Sorry. Life happens, and sucks up all my time and suddenly I'm wondering where an entire week went. Glad the read was fun regardless, hope this chapter was just as fun and with less typos. I'm happy to hear you liked the Weaver/Ben exchange. I kind of wanted that same mood you got from the actual episode when those two talked over Jimmy's grave, I thought it was probably the only really good moment from that episode was those two talking about Jimmy - even though I thought the dialogue was a little lackluster, the actors pulled it off well, they always do. Yeah, I'm going to try not to kill Jimmy this story...at least, not too many more times, not that I would mind being haunted by him - he might, but I wouldn't. :) Dee, yup, can't say anything about the late review, now can I. Thanks for being understanding as always, I appreciate it, your words are always a comfort. I'm glad you really liked the Weaver/Ben scene. As I said before, their relationship isn't like the one between Jimmy/Weaver, and there were times when Ben definitely couldn't stand Weaver being there for Jimmy at times when Ben wanted to be the one there for him, and there were undoubtedly times when Weaver wanted to crack Ben's skull in for being a hot-headed little shit and putting Jimmy in needless danger, so there was kind of a tension there, but also a respect for each other born out of Jimmy's feelings for each of them. You know, confession time, I'm not entirely sure myself how much Weaver knows about Jimmy and Ben's relationship. He's definitely heard the rumors around camp, but I don't see him as the type to put too much stock in rumors, or the type that would want to assume anything. I think he recognizes that there are feelings there, what they are he can't know until he hears it from the boys themselves, but that he make it clear it doesn't matter to him one way or the other. I'm glad you cried reading it, which I feel kind of weird for saying. But yeah, totally the emotion I was springing for, glad I pulled it out of you a little :) . You know, I don't think I'm going the route of the Skitter rebels, to be honest...we'll see what happens. Um, I can tell you however that the Skitter with the discolored skin was not Red Eye. Mainly because Jimmy shot that Skitter through the eye and it's, now, kind of totally dead. You know, I hope it doesn't take a year to finish this story. It probably will, but I'm hoping not. Yeah, I did just glaze over addressing Jimmy's jumping over a cliff, and i'm totally going to ignore that he doesn't show up in this chapter either. Right. Moving on.

Thank you for stopping in you guys. Once again, sorry about the lack of chapter last Sunday. Shit happens. I'll try not to let it happen again for awhile. See you all next Sunday. Hopefully.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: I know, it's kind of a lot late. It's the last semester of school for me, so I have a lot of tough classes. I'm hoping that I can update the story at least bi-weekly, so please don't panic if you don't see anything on Sunday. Just check back, I'm trying to get things up when I can. Also, grammar, typos, there's going to be a lot of them. Apologies.

Thank you to the reviewers last chapter! It's for you I keep writing this.

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V.

The river rushed up, licked Jimmy's legs to his thighs, mud clumped between his fingers and warmed his face. He coughed, dry heaved, and the river dribbled from his mouth. Somewhere, a bird cried out into the dead air and the smell of blood mingled with the cold aroma of sediment. Prying his eyes open hurt, he was greeted by the blinding light of a high winter sun. He attempted to lift himself up, possibly sit, but managed only to roll onto his side, glad to feel his pack still securely strapped onto his shoulders. He was sure his body had been in pain at one point, but now every muscle was numb with cold.

Overhead, the sky was pale white, fluffed with smoke colored clouds. Strings of hair clung to the sides of Jimmy's face. He pushed himself into a seated position by launching off his elbows. Getting to his feet was a tricky negotiation. He had to roll forward onto his hands first, and push himself up that way. He made several attempts, his limbs jelly, before he finally managed to muster the strength to lift his body. He hobbled to the nearest vertical wall, a dead tree trunk, and braced himself against it.

The world spun, first slow and then with a fluctuating speed. He threw up, though only stomach acid came out. Barely composed, he stumbled farther into the woods, falling against various trees for support. He didn't know where he was going, all he knew was he needed to move forward.

The Skitters hadn't followed, at least, from the sounds of things they hadn't. Likely, they assumed him dead. He should be dead, he was sure of it. Eventually, he paused against a tree, and curled up the hem of his shirt, examined his belly. There was hardly a trace of the injury that killed him weeks ago, only a tiny rippling seam where the flesh sewed itself back up right before his eyes. His stomach pinched with hunger and his head swooned. He had a strange suspicion that, at the very least, he could still die from starvation. He tugged the shirt down again and continued moving.

In the thick of the forest, Jimmy knew he stood the best chance of losing the aliens. He pushed on, stumbling through thicket and bracken. It wasn't easy being silent. Darkness had settled over the area, and the deeper Jimmy moved into the forest, the more the overhead foliage gathered together and blocked out whatever light the moon or stars might provide. He stumbled over the uneven earth, tripped once on an unearthed root.

Eventually, the forest began to thin out again, and he came to its edge. On that other side, there was a large stretch of field and nearly a mile away a luxurious looking house sat in the clearing. Jimmy hesitated momentarily. The last time he went to a house in the middle of the woods, it was occupied by human traitors. He waited and watched, searching the night for signs of life, maybe the flicker of a gun's sight or a flash of light in one of the house's windows.

Nothing. Jimmy shuddered, he'd gone numb to the cold an hour or so into his hike after trembling uncontrollably in near spasms, now it was creeping back under his skin. He didn't realize he had started moving again until he was already several yards away from the woods, pushing through high wild grass, yellow stalks that caught in his clothes and scratched at his bare arms.

The house was a sprawling two story colonial with a wraparound porch. Its paint had almost all peeled away, only a few flecks of cracked white remained to recall the pristine white it had once been. Creeper vines had twisted and ripped their way up along the porch's banisters. There was a broken in the front, it creaked with each slight tug of the breeze. Jimmy climbed the steps with a silent reverence. He hesitated, his hand on the door handle, wondering at who had once occupied the house and where they'd gone. He twisted the knob, barely enough energy to feel surprised when it didn't turn. He sighed, rest his head against the door a moment.

Trudging around the house, trailing his fingertips along the weathered walls, Jimmy found a window he could bust and crawl through. Inside, there was a heavy layer of dust. Jimmy seized in a fit of coughs and sneezes. He brought his shirt up over his mouth, and took in his surroundings. He stood in the dining room, the furnishings were all still in the house. The dining room table had a stack of mail on top of it, a closed laptop.

Jimmy moved through the house, slow, taking it in. The kitchen had a few dishes in the drying rack, a couple cups and a frying pan. There was a basket of folded laundry in the living room on the large green sofa, a magazine on the coffee table – _People_ or _Stars_, one of the celebrity gossip rags, open to an article about Kate Winslet and her favorite places to shop. There was an eerie atmosphere to the house, like it had been frozen in time, left completely untouched by the invasion, just waiting for its owners to come home. Sad, in its way.

Upstairs, Jimmy found a bed to crash in. He curled up under the covers and fell immediately into a sound sleep without a chance to even try fighting it. He woke late in the next day, at least he believed it was the next day and not several days later. He was aware he'd dreamed, not entirely sure of what, but the distant ache in his chest, the way he reached along the bed, murmured softly in the drowsy haze of those first waking moments for someone who couldn't possibly be there, that at least in part it had been about Ben. He flopped onto his back, brushed the hair back and rubbed at his face, world spinning into focus, skin still prickling with the energy of the night, his body feeling electric, and heat flowing into a partial hard on.

"No," Jimmy told himself softly, sighed. He tried to calm himself, he needed to get out of there, get moving, the longer he waited the farther away the 2nd Mass – Ben – was getting; but in the dark of his mind, alone there in that empty bed, no one but aliens around for miles, a tiny voice of reason whispered: _what would it hurt_?

The dream trickled back to Jimmy in tiny, tremulous flashes of imagery and remembered feelings. Ben came vivid into Jimmy's vision, all boyish, careless smile, puppy dog eyes, and soft lips; his bare chest and arms taut with sinewy muscles. He was somehow different, fresher, cleaner, farther removed from the harsh realities of the world. Jimmy thought of the comfortable weight of Ben strewn across him, Ben's kiss flush on his mouth.

Trembling hand slipping beneath the blankets, Jimmy recalled the feel of running his hands along the contours of Ben's back and up his shoulders, imagined his fingertips tracing the sharp edge of those metal rods along Ben's spine, the low, erotic growl he knew his touch would've drawn from the other boy, as his own fingers unbuttoned his trousers, and inched beneath the fabric, below the waistline. He closed his eyes as he touched himself, tried to think that it was Ben's calloused hand gently coaxing him into a full erection, forced the image of Ben into the center of his thought, his hard body writhing atop Jimmy, his familiar scent, bittersweet taste.

Jimmy's breath quickened with each stroke of his own hand, his heart pounded ever more furious in his chest as he drowned himself in that picture of Ben, perfect, sweet, sensuous; trying to ignore the increasing sadness growing in his heart the more apart he felt from Ben, remembering, and knowing that it was only his own hand leading him towards climax. He peaked, moaning in a half sob in his release, using the sheet to capture his spilled seed. He pushed away the blankets and collapsed into the pillows, gasping to catch his breath. Slowly, he peeled his eyes open, the pale yellow light streaming through the window blurring his eyes.

It was nearing a month since Jimmy had died. He was wandering aimlessly, not sure if he was getting closer or farther away from the 2nd Mass. He was losing hope, with each passing day, hour, minute that slipped by, that he was never going to see, hear, feel Ben again.

Even worse. Jimmy was beginning to doubt himself, doubt whether seeking out the 2nd Mass was even the right thing for him to do. It had crossed his mind in all his walking, but there hadn't been a moment for him to really dwell on it, too consumed with thoughts of safety, shelter, food. Now, lying in that bed, transported to a time and place untainted by the aliens, he wondered, could he really go back? He had died. It had been his own grave that he'd crawled out of, that those men had dug him out of, a grave the 2nd Mass, those people he was fighting and struggling so hard to return to, had carefully buried him in.

The more time that passed, the more Jimmy felt his life from before the accident fading away. More like the dream he'd had that night than a memory of reality; languidly lying in the arms of a boy that whispered in his ear sweet promises of a future and a happiness he'd spent his entire life yearning for and believing couldn't really exist. A month for him had been a month for Ben also, and everything fading from had was fading from Ben too. If Jimmy found them again, found Ben again, by that time, who would they be and how far away from the place he last saw them would they have gotten? To Ben, Jimmy was gone, and maybe he would grieve for a time, but a month had passed and many more would follow, and eventually enough would pass that Ben would let go and move on, and that life, those promises, that future and happiness, would be gone.

It wasn't as though Jimmy could really expect to be welcomed back to the group, either. There would be questions that Jimmy couldn't answer, beginning and probably ending with "how did you survive". They would think it was connected to the aliens, and Jimmy couldn't argue with that, he was sure it was connected to the aliens too. What else could it be? People didn't rise from the dead. He hadn't been a saint in life, and though he never paid close attention in Sunday school, he remembered enough to know that pretty much everything he'd done with Ben kind of null and voided him for a sacred resurrection. He was hungry, but not particularly for brains, which he was fairly certain ruled out zombie. That was a bit of a relief, the last thing earth needed was a zombie post-apocalypse to wash that alien invasion down.

If it was connected to the aliens, Jimmy couldn't help wondering about the end game. The only value he could truly see his life having to the aliens would be as a means to get to Ben and the rest of the 2nd Mass. If the aliens brought him back to get at the 2nd Mass, to bring them down through him, then that meant his searching for them, that finding them would be doing exactly what the aliens wanted. He'd endanger them all.

Ben was probably well on his way to moving on. A month was a long time. In the middle of a war, it was a lifetime. If Ben had moved on, and Jimmy walked back into his life, would that really be the best thing? And if the aliens were pulling the strings? Pushing Jimmy to find the 2nd Mass to destroy them?

Jimmy tangled his fingers in the chain of the bullet around his neck. His stomach grumbled and he winced at the dull pain. He couldn't lie there forever, he needed to loot the house and move on. He pushed the blankets off his body, straightened his clothes, and attempted to sit up. His limbs quaked under his weight and getting up proved a fierce struggle. On his feet, walking again, he felt a little better. He made it a few feet before his eyes clouded with splotches of black, cold ice rippling from his belly through his arms and legs. He paused against the door, braced himself in its frame until the feeling past.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Jimmy flipped open cabinets, disappointed to find that the house's owners hadn't really believed in keeping a lot of canned foods on hand. He found a jar of peanut butter, all natural, popped it open and ladled it out with a spoon from one of the drawers, gobbling down as much as he could. It felt thick on his tongue, sticky across the roof of his mouth, and in his throat. He tried the faucet, surprised when water rushed out, and gathered it up in his hands. It tasted stale, slightly metallic, but sweet. Relief was instantaneous. He propped himself up over the sink, water dribbling off his chin, gasping for air.

Then his stomach gave a sudden turn and he puked into the sink, every bit of nourishment he'd just put inside of himself being expelled right back out. He clutched the faucet for support, tears streaming down his cheek in frustration and pain. He spat the final pieces of spew out, rinsed his mouth. There was a dish towel hanging off the stove that Jimmy used to clean himself. He picked up the peanut butter again, knew that he needed to try eating more, but set it on the counter again. It was futile, his stomach didn't want to hold it down. He was starving to death and couldn't eat.

"It's possible the aliens are just torturing me," Jimmy murmured, smirking, and then frowning again, "Or I'm not actually alive and this is hell."

Looting the rest of the house took a while. The place really hadn't been touched since the first invasion and there were a lot of good things left. Jimmy knew he could stay there for a few nights too, rest up and build his strength. He was eager to get moving again, because when he was moving, even if it did turn out to be the completely wrong direction or just flat out wrong choice, at least he felt like he was doing something. He lingered while moving through the house, examining the pictures hanging on the walls of the previous owners; a happy, smiling family – parents that were in their late thirties, the father had silver in his hair and mother had crow's feet around her eyes, two sons in their teens, a daughter about ten, and two shitzus. They looked pleasant enough, and probably all died on the first day the skies fell. What other explanation could there be for the house's state?

In one of the boys' rooms, Jimmy found clothes that were about his size. He ran his fingers over the shirts hung in the closet, though a little stale, each was clean and crisp. It had been a long time since he'd worn clean clothes. He opened the drawers of the boy's bureau, fresh undergarments, and jeans, socks and t-shirts. He picked out a few garments. The bathroom down the hall had obviously belonged to the boys too, all of the soaps, the shampoo, deodorant, cologne, razor, everything in the room was a men's brand.

Jimmy popped open the cap of a shampoo bottle, took a tentative sniff. It was heady but had a hint of something green. Before the invasion, he'd used the Suave his mother bought, after the invasion, he'd used whatever he could find, not that there was much time to use hygiene products in-between surviving and fighting. He'd never felt a huge interest, when he was younger, in showering and being well groomed. Wandering the world coated in layers of grime and dust seemed to remind all the more the things humanity had lost.

He filled the tub with cold water. There was no electricity, no heat. He stripped off his clothes, gently prodded the skin over his stomach where the wound had healed, then stepped into the tub. He stood in the water up to his mid-calf, wet a washcloth neatly folded on an overhead shelf and squirted some soap into it. He knelt down a bit, splashing the water up on his body to rinse off. He ended up emptying the tub and refilling it three more times, the soil off his body would turn the water a muddy black. He scrubbed his hair out furiously with the shampoo twice, using the showerhead to rinse it. When he was finished, he realized he'd been shivering uncontrollably, and his skin was now a raw pink from the icy bite of the water. He'd grown so accustomed to that kind of pain, he didn't even acknowledge when he felt it anymore.

The towels overhead were pillowy soft and smelled of Downey, for a painfully long second it reminded him of his mother. He could just see her standing in the doorframe, yelling at him to pick his wet towels up off the bathroom floor, tossing him a few clean ones to store in the linen closet adjacent to his bathroom. He blinked away the image and the tears it brought uninvited to his eyes. Greedily, he used two of the towels, wrapped himself up in their plush terry cloth, plopping on the toilet and burrowing himself deep into their scent. After he dried, he dressed in the clothes he'd found. There was a strange pleasure in slipping into a new pair of boxers, he couldn't even bring himself to think for a minute that they'd once been worn by another boy entirely, they were clean and new. The fabric wasn't stiff, it didn't itch or smell.

In one of the drawers, Jimmy had thankfully found winter wear, long john's and wind breakers. There'd been a picture in the hall of the family at a ski resort. The boy whose clothes Jimmy borrowed had been a snow boarder. The board set propped in the boy's closet, patiently waiting for slopes it would never glide down slopes again. Jimmy pulled on a pair of long john's, they didn't cling tight enough to his skin but he felt warmer already, and then over them tugged up a pair of faded blue jeans, they were a little too long and he had to roll up the cuffs, but they fit around his midsection well enough. Though he'd grabbed a belt in case, it didn't seem he would need it, which was fine. Belts were useful for other things. The jean fabric was nice and pliable, but still held its durability, its threads were strong and thick. Those trousers he'd been buried in were in tatters, they weren't going to hold together much longer.

He pulled on a long sleeve undershirt next. It was nice to wear something that didn't still reek of another man's body odor, even if it had belonged to another boy. It had a faint smell to it, but the smell was more pleasant, mostly remnants of the boy's soap and cologne, a bit of the laundry detergent and softener. Next came a long sleeve flannel, pale yellow and purple crisscrossing stripes. Jimmy left it unbuttoned for now, he was warm and that was what mattered.

His bath left a black ring in the tub, and Jimmy felt a shame in it. It was disrespectful to the people who'd owned the place, and taken such good care of it. It had been a loving home once, filled with a family that cared for one another. They'd gone on vacations, argued over chores, ate home cooked family dinners, probably said grace, and attended Sunday mass. They were dead now and it didn't seem right, like spitting on their grave, to leave his grime behind in their tub. Under the sink he found some cleaners. He rolled up his sleeves and poured them into the tub, sat on his knees scrubbing the porcelain white again. When he was satisfied, he washed his hands and headed downstairs to try to eat again.

Night was already beginning to fall outside. Jimmy had found candles earlier in the kitchen. He closed the curtains in the windows and lit one. He managed to nibble and keep down about half a tablespoon of peanut butter. He climbed the stairs, brushed his teeth in the bathroom. He found floss and mouthwash in the medicine cabinet, and eagerly used it. His gums bleed awful and the mouthwash stung in the cuts, and his mouth felt cleaner than it had in well over a year. Then he went into a bedroom, and laid under the blankets. He could stay there for a while, he realized. The food stores in the cupboard, with just him, could last him several months. When he ran low, the forest was rife with resources. He was sure the house had a generator, most of those old homes out in the woods did. If he could find it, turn it on for a bit, he could wait out the winter there.

Absently, he reached into his pack, dug out Weaver's compass. The river water had gotten into it, but to his relief, it was working fine. He assumed it was water proof, otherwise what would be the point of such a fancy device? Weaver would look for shelter to sit out the winter too, Jimmy realized. To continue moving without promise of shelter for long spans of time, with constant threat of snowstorm, sleet, and hail looming overhead would be a death sentence to the group otherwise. Jimmy set the compass down on the bed's headboard behind him. He took the bullet in his hand, lay his other hand over the healed injury on his belly. He wondered vaguely if he could freeze to death, but his journey told him he knew that answer. Staying in that house through winter was his best and only option.

He shuddered, his voice trembled, as he closed his eyes and said, "Please wait for me, Ben. I'm coming, so please wait."

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AN: Can't say much, gotta get to work. Anyhow, Jimmy's found shelter for a time. Winter is on the horizon.

Please let me know what you think (ie. Review). Thanks.

Reviewers: Sassysavanna190, hehe, yes, Ryan is coming and he will cause quite an emotional stir, and add another element to the sort of triangle going on with Roman. As you see this chapter, Jimmy's starting to wonder the same thing about how the 2nd Mass will receive him. He's got to find them first. I'm hoping this story doesn't get much longer than fifty chapter, but we'll see. LuckyDreamer91, just okay? Aw...yeah, it's hard to write great chapters between school and the boys being separated. Yeah, I have no clue where the sword came into my mind, I just though it be cool if Ben got this rep for being the fighter on battle that could go hand-to-hand with Mechs, but that storyline has diverged drastically in my head, given where this story is going. Dee, this is going to be short too, because I literally have a minute to write some response, at this point I don't know how much the others really blame Ben for Jimmy's death, but I guess I ought to address that eventually. Everyone does deal with grief differently though, and I'm going to be getting into how the 2nd Massers are all dealing with their grief eventually. Yeah, Ben's memories and flashes/dreams/visions/whatever, are going to start merging and emerging soon. Water creature has already appeared in last story, reread. Ben is going down a dark rabbit hole. Hopefully Jimmy won't be too late, but Ben is not waiting at all. He's definitely looking to end it at the moment, things might change though very soon. Hopefully. We'll see.

Thanks for dropping in guys. Dammit, I'm late. Got to run, hope you enjoyed. See you again...sometime.


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